


Stranger in Paradise

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is Blair Sandburg doing on a tropical island?  Besides fantasizing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranger in Paradise

## Stranger in Paradise

by Jantique

Pet Fly having abandoned them, Jim and Blair, like Lincoln, now belong to the ages.   


Send praise, criticism and plot bunnies to the author at Jantique@webtv.net.   


The "resort" is an amalgam of many different places I have been to, read of or fantasized about. Any resemblance to any actual specific location (e.g., Club Med Turks & Caicos) is completely coincidental and a great place to vacation. The airport, sadly, is real.   


* * *

**STRANGER IN PARADISE**

by Jantique 

It was Paradise--the brochure said so. "Come to Paradise--Come to Club Caribe! Warm breezes, white sand, turquoise waters GUARANTEED! We can make your dreams come true!" In addition, the club featured great food, a disco, an open bar, and one of the world's largest "make-out" clubs. Blair Sandburg hated it. 

The worst part was, it was all his own fault. "You've been working too hard," Jim said. "Take some time off," Simon said. "Get away from it all," everyone said. Now he was stuck here for an entire week, and all he wanted to do was to go back to Cascade--back to Jim. That was the problem. 

Before he left, he'd had trouble . . . concentrating. When he was supposed to be grading papers, he thought about Jim. When he was supposed to be working on his thesis, he thought of a dozen questions he needed to ask Jim. Sometimes he got as far as dialing, only to realize he knew the answers, or had asked Jim that one _yesterday_ , and hung up. 

When he was working with Jim, as Sentinel and Guide--so far, he'd managed to focus in the crisis situations. But doing paperwork at the station, he found himself staring at Jim--the hairs on the back of his hand, the line his cheekbone made from his jaw to his ear, his eyes--Blair didn't dare look into his eyes. You could get lost in that gaze. So he looked away, didn't touch. Sat as far away as possible in the truck. Gave monosyllabic replies to anything Ellison asked, and never, never went out with Jim for a drink after work, even if the other guys came along. Because if he got drunk, he might do something Really Stupid. Like look. Or touch. Or kiss. Everyone saw he was acting strange, thank the Almighty they didn't know why. Henry said, "You need a vacation, Blair," and Simon said, "Go get some peace and quiet, Sandburg," and Rafe (naturally) said, "I know this great resort." 

So here he was in "Paradise", he'd already been blatantly hit on four times (not counting the "come hither" looks), and he couldn't summon the interest to _check them out_. Oh, he had it bad. 

Blair Sandburg sat at the bar in front of the pool, sipping a melting Pina Colada. He watched people playing water volleyball, doing water aerobics, splashing each other. One man swimming laps with strong, powerful strokes. Swimming up to the near end, Jim Ellison pulling himself out of the pool, water glistening on his skin in the sunlight, looking like a model for men's cologne. Wiping the water out of his eyes with the back of his hand, seeing Blair, suddenly smiling brighter than the sun--STOP IT, SANDBURG. DON'T GO THERE. He squeezed his eyes shut, flashes of orange chasing away the vision. When he opened them, there was no one swimming laps. Jim wasn't there. He never WOULD BE. Blair finished his drink. It was a beautiful sunset, but Blair never saw it, staring past the horizon. One day down, six to go. 

The second day, he got up early, had breakfast, did stretching exercises, took Intermediate Tennis lessons, laps in the pool, beach volleyball and broke for lunch. In the afternoon, he did water-skiing (which mainly consisted of waiting in line), water aerobics, juggling lessons and swimming in the ocean. Then he had dinner. He didn't want to give himself time to think. It helped a little. 

After dinner, he took a walk down the beach, which was deserted now. It was still late twilight, and the western sky was streaked with deepening shades of blue. Over the ocean, the stars shone, dozens that he could see, hundreds more he sensed just beyond his field of vision. It was a beautiful evening. 

He walked along the sand, the ocean to his right, small waves murmuring a gentle susurration as they lapped in and out. A light breeze rustled the trees and bushes to his left--Cuban royal palms and dwarf green coconuts, oleanders, mimosas and natal plum bushes. It was very romantic--if you had someone to share it with. Far down the beach, a solitary figure appeared, tall strong. Walking toward him, at first hesitantly, then eagerly. JIM! Blair broke into a run. He couldn't see--the flickering stars, the wind blowing his hair in his eyes. He stopped and blinked hard. There was absolutely no one and nothing on the beach, save himself and one Cuban royal palm tree. The palm tree wasn't going anywhere. Neither was he. Blair went back to his room and went to bed, while the music from the disco throbbed out into the night. Two days down, five to go. 

The third day, they had Color Wars. Blair was on the Blue team. They all trooped down to the beach, where they played Tug-of-War, Egg Toss, Human Chain, Fireman's Carry, Pass the Coconut, and Throw the Other Team's Captain in the Ocean. Then they went back up to the pool, where they had Blindfolded Laps, Find the Bar Coins in the Pool and Fishing for Bikinis. After lunch, they played Basketball, Street Hockey, Softball and Team Trivia. The Grand Finale was a beer-drinking contest. The Red team won. It was one of the most interminable days of Blair's life, matched only by the previous two. 

After dinner, everyone spilled out around the pool for the Limbo contest. Blair snagged a chair where he could watch and be out of the way--or so he thought. There were more women than men present, and the helpful employees were always on the lookout for an unattached male. One of them cajoled Blair into partnering a single woman. Karen was a little taller than he, with sun-streaked brown hair and an attractive smile. She had nice brown eyes, too--but you couldn't get lost in them. Not like--Blair drew in his breath, and assured Karen it would be his pleasure to be her partner. 

They did all right the first three rounds, then Blair bumped the Limbo bar and they were out of the contest. They thanked each other, Karen went to get a drink, and Blair resumed his seat. 

He heard someone walk up and stand next to him, but didn't turn his head. Then a teasing voice said in his ear, "Want to 'go down'?" Blair let out a long breath and relaxed. It was Jim, of course, wearing a black silk tank top and white shorts with the legend 'Cascade's Finest' across the front. 

Jim held out his hand. "Come on. I want to see how . . . flexible you are." His grin shone in the darkness like a beacon. Blair put out his hand -- and nearly spilled some guy's beer! DAMN! Blair didn't mind having fantasies--at night, in the privacy of his own room--but this was getting way out of control! He looked around. The Limbo was over. No contest. Three days down, four to go. 

Blair had had enough. The next morning, after a restless sleep, he went to the office and booked himself on the next available flight out, leaving at 4:45 that afternoon. The hostess was naturally concerned: Was something wrong, was he NOT HAPPY? Blair assured her that no, everything was fine, but he had urgent police business, a case was coming up for trial, he had to get back. Immediately. He wondered if he should call the station to make the lie true--but no, Simon would just order him to stay. The hostess commiserated with him how tragic it was to have his vacation cut short, and he let her. She was apologetic, but would he mind leaving early so the driver could pick up the passengers coming in at 2:30? Blair assured her that was no problem. She felt so sorry for him (and he _was_ cute), she even let him cash in his unused bar coins, though that was strictly against the rules. 

Funny--now that he knew he was leaving, Blair was able to enjoy himself. He left his swimsuit out when he packed, and went for a final swim in the ocean, changing in the Men's Room behind the bar. Next he enjoyed a wonderful buffet lunch. Then he sat by the pool, drank a rum punch, and flipped through an old sports magazine until the hostess came to get him. She hoped he would be able to come back soon. 

Blair smiled politely, assured her that he would certainly return, but couldn't say when, and gratefully hopped into the waiting van. 

As they bumped along the dirt roads to the airport, Blair's thoughts churned. He knew he couldn't return to the same situation he'd left--make that, run away from. Jim Ellison was the Sentinel; Blair Sandburg was his Guide. That fact was the most important thing in both their lives. It was his duty, his privilege and obligation, to be there for Jim when he needed Blair. Not just as Guide, but as a friend, someone could trust and count on. Anything else . . . was of no priority at all. He should be grateful for what he had. He would be what Jim Ellison needed, and not whine and sulk because he couldn't have everything he wanted. He had Jim. It would be enough. It would have to be. 

The airport terminal was . . . terminal. The exterior walls were blocks of granite, except where there were no walls The interior walls were sheets of plywood. The roof covered most of it. The sign read, "Please pardon our appearance during renovations." The whole was "air-conditioned" by a sultry breeze that blew from one end to the other, occasionally stirring up papers on the Reservations counter. Gently put, it was not unlike a large, misshapen carport. More unkindly, it had been likened to a bombed-out building in Kabul--with heat, noise and luggage. Never mind, he was going home. Blair found a seat out of the traffic lanes, and watched the tourists come and go. 

Oh, damn, he was hallucinating again. Tourists were disembarking, and one looked _so much_ like Jim, wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants, with that uncertain manner that all new tourists had, looking confused and impossibly kissable. Okay, Sandburg, he thought desperately, stop this Right Now! The man walked past and damn!, he looked like Ellison. Blair couldn't help himself. He moaned, "Jim. . . ." And Jim turned around. 

"Blair! What are you--" 

"Jim! What are you--" 

**"--DOING HERE?!!"**

They stared at each other, half-accusatory, completely bewildered. 

Oh damn, that gaze, those eyes. He could get lost in them forever. After a long moment, Blair blurted out, "I missed you!" Half a beat behind, Jim whispered, "I missed you." 

Oh. Oh. One of them reached out a hand. The other took it, and pulled them together hard. Then they were kissing hungrily, not stopping until they had to come up for air. They were greeted with cheers and applause by the other tourists. Blair smiled brilliantly, and Jim's heart melted. He pulled Blair close, resolving never to let go. He never knew that one tiny bit of that smile wasn't just for him. But at that moment, standing in the noisy, ugly airport, holding his beloved in his arms, the only thing Blair Sandburg could think was, 'The brochure was right. This IS Paradise.' 

And they vacationed happily ever after. 

**THE END**

\--first TS story I ever wrote. Could you tell?-- 

"Stranger in Paradise" Page 1 

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End Stranger in Paradise by Jantique: Jantique@webtv.net

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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